


this is not a story about you

by erlkoenig



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, This Is Not A Story About You, a series of vignettes and how they are all connected, and yet it is, even when they don't yet know it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-11 16:33:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15976172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erlkoenig/pseuds/erlkoenig
Summary: This is not a story about you.Not yet.





	this is not a story about you

**Author's Note:**

> A gift for my players. You are an inspiration. This is a story about you.

_This is not a story about you._

It starts the way most stories like this start.

It starts with a touch of grey at the temples, with crows feet at the corners of the eyes. It starts here, where denial tastes like a compliment, like a brush of curls away from a forehead and a whisper of _you are just as handsome as when I first met you._

And it’s not a lie, you’ve never been one to lie to him at least. He is still as handsome as the day you met and will always be as handsome as the day you met, if you can do something about it.

 _There are ways_ , you say, casually over dinner, for against his ankle. He laughs it off, takes your hand and kisses it and you wonder for a moment about a world where you will never feel the press of those teeth against your skin again and it’s a terror you have never felt before.

You bring it up again, lazy in the early morning and he doesn’t laugh about it this time.

 _You knew this would happen_ , he says, and you can hear an apology in his voice. You hate it.

It starts with a harsh word, that grows into another and another, into a plea and finally someone raises their voice and someone else raises to match it. Something breaks, you both look at the coffee spilling over the table and you cannot take the silence any more than you can the shouting because the silence comes with another apology you don’t want to hear.

You go to the river. Somewhere in the distance behind you you can hear the front door close, a sigh carried on the wind, something unspoken.

The river is a comfort, is a home away from home, is —when the whisper of the reeds and the long grass reaches you— where you belong. Where you _used_ to belong, but now home is a little cottage by the shoreline that the two of you have decorated with sea silk and lace, with furniture you watched carved into shape and all the nights stretched out on the roof watching the moon rise and set.

The dark holds you, dark water all around and at last you are alone with your thoughts. Here you linger, waiting for some great epiphany, the answer to everything, to life and death and the universe, or at least the answer to death. That terrible inevitability that should never touch you and yet you can feel it coming, creeping fingers that leave a ripple in the water.

There is a ripple in the water, a storm above to match the storm within. And then there is a different silence, something terrible and aching and empty and —

You breathe in, water in the lungs. Water in your lungs, lungs you do not need. Water in lungs that are not yours.

The rain has slowed to a drizzle as they pull the body from the water.

There are eyes on you and so few, so few have any pity.

They pull the body from the water and lay it on the shore, someone cries, someone wails and it is an ugly sound. Grotesque. There’s a sheet over his face before you can get any closer and someone pulls you away, says _it’s best you don’t see this lad,_ but there’s no softness there.

Silence, the sound of gentle weeping. It doesn’t take long for the whispers to start.

_Should never have taken up with that sort._

_It was only a matter of time._

_Do you really think he did it?_

It was an accident. A slippery dock in the rain, a broken fishing pole. _Good for thinking, better for eating,_ and a laugh forever quiet now.

_Think he pulled him in?_

_Course he did._

It was an accident. You could have been there, should have been there.

Should never have been anywhere.

They put him in the ground and somewhere you can smell burning and you wish for rain.

They put him in the ground while they torch a life you will never get back and it is all gone, gone, gone. Ash and bones, smoldering in ruins and a few broken, charred frames.

There is nothing left. There is no time left to grieve.

_There should have been more time, at least a little more time. We should have had more time._

You leave. There is nothing left to do.

——

_This is not a story about you._

It’s the storms that come first, the river rising too fast and the the lower fields flooding. Then the heat, the flies that come for the rotting roots. The cattle grows sick, the milk sours, the wolves creep into the pens with the sheep, the foxes into the chickens.

One after the other after another.

 _It’s a curse._ And it doesn’t take long for the fingers to point, tongues to wag and each neighbor side-eyeing the other.

_There’s a changeling in our midst, mark my words._

You’re skipping rocks by the swollen river when your brother comes to sit with you. It’s hot out, you know it’s hot out, but there’s a chill you can’t shake.

 _You look pale_ , he says. _Are you getting sick?_

You shake your head. You feel fine. You shiver.

It’s hot out, you know it’s hot out.

He looks at you, hands you another stone. You pull your arm back to throw it and the world tilts, sharply. You’re falling, falling, falling and then your brother catches you. He’s bigger than you, older, taller, and just as scared as you are.

 _I’m fine_ , you say, closing your eyes.

When you wake, you’re in bed. There’s a doctor speaking with your grandfather. The other boy is there, hovering around the door. He’s not your grandfather, he’s not your brother’s grandfather. He raised you all the same, read you both stories, sang you both lullabies.

Doesn’t that make him your grandfather? Why won’t they look at you?

You close your eyes.

 _Are you a changeling?_ You hear a whisper in the dark. There’s a cup of water at your lips and you drink so fast you might make yourself sick and yet you cannot stop.

You blink, sweating. The fever is breaking. Why won’t anyone look at you?

_Are you a changeling?_

You shake your head, squinting against the too-bright candlelight.

_They say you’re a changeling._

You’re cold again, fingers reaching for the edge of the blanket.

_The milk is fresh, the cows are better._

Why won’t he look at you?

_They say you did this, and that you getting sick was the fairies calling you back to the brugh._

_I’m not a fairy._ You say, reaching for the cup.

_I know you didn’t. But they don’t. They’re going to throw you in the river._

You start to cry, you can’t help it. You start to cry and choke, taste bile behind your teeth and your brother -- your not-brother -- slaps his hand over your mouth and tells you to be quiet.

 _Do you trust me?_ He asks you, and you nod, through tears, through shuddering, choked-off sobs. You do, of course you do.

He is your brother. (Your not-brother, but what is the difference?)

He hands you your coat. _Come with me._

He buttons your coat for you, takes you by the hand. The moon is dark but the stars are bright. He takes you to the river, and you start to pull away until he tells you to hush, _do you trust me?_

Of course you trust him. He is your brother.

He takes you past the river and you can breathe again. Takes you into the woods, further and further and deeper than you have ever gone before. Past the big oak tree that grandfather tied a red ribbon around and told you never to pass. But grandfather isn’t here and grandfather is one of the ones who would throw you into the river.

It’s why no one would look at you.

You think you’re going to cry again.

Further into the woods, and there is a clearing. It is bright here, bright like there’s a full moon out even though you know there’s not. Bright like all the stars are shining down their light on this patch of grass and the ring of red flowers in the middle.

You scrub your hands over your eyes, trying to remember a story about red rings in the forest.

 _Do you trust me?_ And you nod, sleepily. And your brother is crying now, so you take his hand, thread your fingers through his. He’s crying as he leans down and kisses the top of your head and says, _I promise I will not let them get you this way._

You don’t have time to think about it, because you are falling. You are falling. You are falling forever.

\------

 _This is not a story about you_.

Somehow, the crops pull through. The milk is plentiful. What remains of the chickens and sheep are watchful, and what remains survives.

There are flowers by the river. Red flowers.

You sit by them and throw stones into the water. They do not skip, they sink.

You never could throw stones like he could.

No one talks about him. No one says anything about it again.

You can't stay here, not now. Not now that you  _know._

When you leave, you take the same path through the forest.

\-----

_This is not a story about you. Not really._

You have always wanted to see the sea. Always wanted to breathe the ocean air, to stand on the shore sand, let the waves wash over your feet, hear the gulls cry above you.

You watch the water crash against the rocks from the windows, the soft smell of old books all around you, the flickering, soft yellow of the candles hanging in their glass boxes.

You will watch the sunset with the tide up to your knees tonight; for now, you pull another book to you, fingers tracing the cracked spine with a reverence you haven’t felt in a long time.

There’s a voice behind you, someone calling you a stranger with a smile on their lips.

You turn, you smile. You have a flash of something, the two of you watching the sun set together. Toes in the sand, the waves lapping at your shins.

You tell them your name. They tell you theirs. You make room for them to sit.

Later, on the shore, you think about holding their hand.

\----

_This is not a story about you. Not yet._

There’s something that feels familiar about this stranger. Something that tastes like salty air, sounds like those cautionary tales told in the night time over ales at the tavern, feels like home.

There’s a monster outside the door, but in here is safe. It is safe for now. Here with this stranger that feels like home. This stranger that looks at you like you’re something precious and maybe for a moment you can believe it.

_I’ve been a coward all my life._

You don’t. You don’t believe it.

You don’t want to believe in this sort of thing.

\-----

_This is not a story about you. But it will be._

You fold your hands, wanting to believe in something. Anything.

Wanting -- what do you want?

Answers. Reassurance. Guidance.

Revenge.

You fold your hands. You pray for revenge.

You pray with one eye open because nothing has ever come without a price.

All the same, you pray.

\-----

_This is a story about you._


End file.
